


An Evening I Will Not Forget

by theoneinquisitor



Series: celebration fills [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Liz's Fic Celebration, Mild Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers, These losers don't know how to have a one night stand together are you kidding me, soldier! bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 03:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: It's his last night before deployment, and all Bellamy wants to do is make it memorable. Meeting Clarke? It's definitely something he won't forget.





	An Evening I Will Not Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song of the same name by Dermot Kennedy. It's one of my favorites. Ever. 
> 
> For clarkesevilclone on tumblr, who asked for a one-night stand fic, but like, with emotion because they obvi can't do the whole detached sex thing. <3

She is an enigma on a barstool, a whirlwind of Doc Martin’s and cut off shorts with a glare the could cut glass. From the moment she walks in, she’s the center of attention, and she’s either oblivious to it all or unbothered, something that interests him from the get-go. He’s both impressed by her unwavering courage to come to a sleazy bar like Sal’s on her own and a bit concerned, because as a frequent patron over the past six months, he’s very much aware of the sketchy shit that goes on when it gets dark outside.

Yet, it seems she has no reservations, even less fear, and he watches in amusement as men continue to approach her, turning on their most charming smile, only to turn around moments later looking like they’ve been kicked squarely in the balls. They aren’t used to being told no, not here. This is where soldiers come for meaningless shit, both conversation and a quick fuck.

Admittedly, he’s one of them: young and afraid, though he’d never say it out loud, looking for someone to ground him for just one more night before he’s off to fight in a war he doesn’t really believe in.

“Your turn, Blake,” Miller grins across the table at him. Murphy flops dejectedly in the seat next to him, the bar vixen’s latest victim.

“I wouldn’t waste your time,” Murphy grumbles, “I think she’s getting some kind of twisted pleasure from torturing us.”

And maybe, in his own sick way, that’s the moment he decides to try. She’s commanding, unapologetic. Stubborn. He finishes his beer and smirks at his buddies, fully prepared to meet her sharp edges with his own. A collision between the two could cause earthquakes, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

When he approaches, she hardly acknowledges his presence, just continues stirring her drink absently as she watches the television. College baseball.

“Listen,” he starts easily, keeping a safe distance from her so she doesn’t feel intruded upon, “If you could pretend to talk to me for like, the next ten minutes, I will buy you whatever drink you want.”

“Be careful with a promise like that,” she responds, sipping lightly from her drink, “I have expensive taste.”

He waits her out, tapping his fingers lightly against the bar as he pretends to be interested in Oregon State’s nine to two lead. He hears the slight shift of her chair and tries not to smile.

“You’re a soldier,” she says rather than asks, blue eyes fluttering to the tags hanging on his newly defined chest. Months of non-stop workouts have taken the scrawny teen from Queens and turned him into the super soldier – Bellamy always found Captain America to be quite ridiculous, but as a man in the army now, he truly understands what it meant, and it couldn’t be any closer to the truth.

“You’re beautiful,” he responds easily. If she’s going to add him to her list of kills for the night, this would be the moment. He waits for a biting remark, at the very least, a “fuck off” but it never comes.

Instead, she rolls her eyes and he notices her cheeks have flushed a bright pink, betraying her indifference. This time he doesn’t hide his smugness. There is no invitation, but he sits down next to her, anyway, the stool squeaking underneath the weight of him. He’s heavier now, sure, but it gives him a sense of pride to know that his body is strong – his childhood spent never knowing when the next meal would be left ribs poking through the skin, left him once afraid to even look in the mirror.

“I’m Bellamy,” he introduces, holding out a calloused hand for her to shake. Strangely formal, maybe, considering he’s here with one goal and one goal only.

Typically, he would hardly make an effort. If there’s anything he’s learned over the months, it’s that there is a particular kink for men in uniform and an understanding that they will never want to settle down. Expectations are low. The sex is great. It’s a completely new universe for him, but one he’s adjusted to quite well.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, lifting the drink to her lips and taking a long sip. A whiskey and coke, if he had to guess, a much smarter choice than the tequila currently causing his stomach to flip. She gives him another once over, eyes sparkling with something he can only describe as mischief, and he feels a small burst of adrenaline peel through his veins.

“Clarke.”

“Clarke,” the name falls off his tongue like silk, “What brings you to this hole in the wall? Not to judge, but you strike me as a brewery kind of girl.”

Instead of answering, she finishes off her drink quickly, before turning to him with a sly smile. “Let’s not pretend you have any interest in getting to know me, soldier. You sat down because you either wanted to prove your friends over there just how fucking hot shit you are or because you were hoping I would take you home and give you something to remember before you have to go abstinent for the better part of a year.”

He’s almost certain his jaw hits the floor, that he looks monumentally stupid because, while many have never hesitated to call him on his bullshit, he usually gets a little more time to deserve it. But Clarke wastes no time, and before he can slink back over to his buddies, who are _definitely_ watching from across the room, with his tail between his legs, she laughs. Her golden hair is tossed behind her back, cascading down and brushing along her spine beneath the thin cotton t-shirt she’s wearing. The long, pale column of her neck is exposed, and his eyes are drawn to a spot just behind her ear that he has to physically restrain himself from latching on to.

He attempts to recover, clearing his throat, “Did I miss the joke?”

When she smiles again, he finds himself wanting to make sure it never disappears. “Lucky for you, I’m not really interested in small talk. If you want to get out of here, then let’s get out of here.”

Just when he thinks she’s out of surprises.

“Not even to make sure I’m not a serial killer or something? You really should be a little more cautious…” He shakes his head, doing his best to pretend his dick isn’t already twitching in his pants at the prospect of being with her. He likes her already, blunt and beautiful and dangerous.

“You came here with your other soldier buddies, who, by the way, are praying you fail right now so they can have something to joke on you about for the next three weeks.” She rests her elbow on the bar, propping up her chin with her fist as she waves at the group of men at the other end. They wave back tentatively, confused smiles on their face. “But lucky for you, I don’t live far and I’m happy to make sure you aren’t the laughing stock of your squad over there.”

He lets out a low whistle, “Maybe I should be cautious, then. This sounds like a set up so you can murder me and steal my fortune.”

“Maybe it is.”

Sure, it seems like the beginning of an episode of Dateline. Lord knows Bellamy’s spent far too much time watching shows that made him terrified of letting his baby sister out of his sight. But he stands, anyway, offering his hand to the beautiful blonde, and trying not to smile ear to ear as she takes his hand in a firm grip.

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

If the whistles following them out the door of the bar bother her, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she keeps her hand in his as she pulls him along for two blocks, until finally he can’t take it anymore and tugs her into his body so he can kiss her. Her lips are dry from the wind, but soft and warm, reacting instantly to his sudden invasion. Her hands move to his chest, one gripping the fabric of his t-shirt and the other playfully tugging on his dog tags.

“Not much further,” she mumbles against his lips, eyes glazed over in a lustful bliss, and he imagines his don’t look much different. She keeps her fingers laced with his, and to onlookers they might even assume them to be a couple in love rather than a couple of lonely adults who met less than twenty minutes ago in a seedy bar.

Funny, appearances.

By the time they make it to the apartment, a little bungalow behind what appears to be an old Victorian home, he’s feeling something akin to nervousness, a rare but potent buzzing in his veins as she unlocks the door. If she weren’t keeping a grip on his hand, it might be trembling slightly which is both embarrassing a little disconcerting considering the only time he’s been nervous about sex was his first time.

The door opens and he follows her in, admiring the way she seems to have maximized the space of a small studio. It’s quaint and homey, smelling of lavender and vanilla, and somehow that alone seems to rid him of the anxiety he had been feeling. Art is scattered along the wall, watercolors and sketches and pastels. When he spots the easel in the small corner, he stops.

“You’re an artist, then?”

“What gave it away?” She picks something up off the floor and lays it on the small table near the window, mostly for something to do with her hands.

She had shut down small talk already, and typically, he wouldn’t have to be told twice. But his eyes are drawn to the painting above her stove and he wanders over to it, admiring the familiar lines of Times Square. Only, it’s not the Times Square he or anyone else knows. This one is desolate, like the world is suddenly empty and broken. Signs are distorted, the streets littered with colorful paper and dusty cars. Apocalyptic.

“This is beautiful,” he murmurs.

Her voice is so quiet, he almost misses it. “Really?”

He turns, and sees that the blush is back, only this time there are splotches along her neck and her cheek. She clears her throat, pulling her eyes away from his as she looks at the painting as well. To his surprise, she adds, “I submitted this to five different galleries, and they all told me it was ‘too dark’.”

“They must not have seen the bigger picture.”

That draws out another smile. “No, I guess not.”

There’s a long silence as they stand there, her with her hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans and him leaning on her stove. The confidence in the bar has worn off and he can see the doubt and anxiety has creeped into her soft features – it’s all too familiar. He takes a step towards her, laying a hand on her hip, trying not to feel overly satisfied when she leans into it.

“If you’ve changed your mind, we can still have that small talk,” he tells her gently, “Now that I’m certain you aren’t going to kill me.”

She rolls her shoulders back, her chest pushing into his own, and he _really_ tries not to focus on that fact, but rather on the twinkle that’s flashed in her eye. “Oh yeah, what makes you so sure?”

He leans down, so close that their noses are brushing and his breath his hot on her skin. “Artists are too sensitive.” His lips are a whisper on hers before he pulls back. “Too in tune with the world and with life. You just aren’t capable.”

She repeats his movement, brushing her lips against his and holding them there a fraction of a second longer, “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

It’s an opening; he knows it. A chance for him to take what he came for, what she’s willing to give. But something stops him from capturing her mouth, from taking her tongue and dragging her to the bed to explore the rest of her. He’s intrigued, and he can’t figure out why.  So that’s what pulls him away, what guides his hand to her cheek, his thumb to smooth out the confused wrinkle along her forehead.

“Why were you at the bar, Clarke?” he asks quietly.

The ice maker drops ice into her freezer, and the low buzz of the air conditioning fills the otherwise void silence. She steps around him and reaches into the cabinet next to the stove, pulling down a small container of multi-colored leaves.

“Tea?”

He sits at the table while she warms the water and mixes the leaves, handing him a mug with a rubber manatee clinging to the side and when he raises an eyebrow in question, she rolls her eyes. “It’s a mana- _tea._ ” And of course, he laughs, because it’s ridiculous. And then she sits down with her own mug, a pug peeking over the edge and he doubles over.

“Say it,” he wheezes when she shakes her head at him. He knows what the pun is, it’s blatantly obvious, but he wants to hear her. “Please.”

With a sigh, she toys with the rubber diffuser. “Pug in a mug.”

He composes himself finally, drinking from his own cup slowly, burning his tongue slightly. “Sugar?”

She reaches behind her to grab a mason jar from the counter and slides it to him. She watches him scoop spoonful by spoonful with a look of disdain and by the forth, she’s snatching the jar back from him. “If you wanted sugar water, I wouldn’t have wasted tea!”

He doesn’t argue for it back, still drinks his drink with a smug grin, smacking his lips together in dramatic effect. The tequila has already started to leave his blood stream, and he finds he’s glad for that.

“So,” she finally says, “Why were _you_ at the bar?”

“That’s not fair, I asked you first!”

“My house, my rules.”

He sighs. “Fair enough. You were pretty spot on. We deploy tomorrow.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Iraq.”

“Ouch.” She flinches, “Sorry.”

“It’s what I signed up for.”

“Still. Signing up and actually doing it are two different beasts.”

“What about you? Don’t tell me you’re getting deployed, too?” It’s a lame joke, but she smiles anyway.

“No, don’t worry. No fraternization happening here.” She takes another long drink, “My dad liked that bar a lot. He was a Captain in the Army for nearly fifteen years.”

Bellamy tries to keep his expression neutral, wanting to ask questions but also noting the tone in which she’s telling him this. The past tense, the wistfulness. He knows it all too well.

“He died last year, so sometimes I go there to feel close to him again.” She looks away, suddenly interested in the exposed brick on the adjacent wall. “That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? Way to kill the mood, Clarke.”

On instinct, he reaches across the table, sliding his hand on top of hers. “It’s not pathetic at all.”

And that’s how they come together. Two souls in mourning: one for the loss of her father, unexpected and a reminder of the fragility of life and everyone in it, and the other for his life, what it could have been, the unknown of what it will become.

In a strange twist of events, they find themselves still sitting at her small table three hours later, both with a new wealth of knowledge about the other. Suddenly the girl in the bar is Clarke Griffin, med-school dropout with an almost finished art degree and a rich mother who has all but disowned her. She talks about her dad, someone Bellamy is certain he would have loved to meet and tells him about the ‘in-between’.

“It’s sort of like...I’m at this place now where people I know are starting to graduate from school and figure themselves out but I’m in between it all. I don’t know what’s next or where I’m going next. I just...am.”

She’s funny. Wicked smart. Kind.  But what he quickly learns is the scariest part: if he had met her in another life, one where he wasn’t being shipped halfway across the world, where he wasn’t about to be dropped in the middle of a war, where he wouldn’t become something he’d one day despise, he might ask her out. He might fall in love with her, something he’s never in a million years experienced or expected to happen.

And maybe it is knowing that, knowing they are doomed to be a story in the middle of June and nothing more, that gets him talking, too.

She now knows, he’s Bellamy Blake. Born and raised in Queens, with hardly two pennies to rub together and a sister that’s depended on him almost her whole life. A mom who was absent, not by choice but because in an effort to provide for her children she became an empty shell, and later died not a week after he turned eighteen. She knows what even his closest buddies from boot camp don’t: that the only reason he even enlisted was because it was a quick paycheck and the surest way to make sure Octavia went to college. It sure as hell wasn’t a warped sense of patriotism; it’s not like this country is particularly patriotic about brown people, as it is. He’s a soldier, who lives and breathes to make sure his sister lives a better life than he did. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Well soldier,” she finally says, pushing her emptied mug into the middle of the table, “What time do you have to report back?”

He checks the watch on his wrist, just after 2100. If he were smart, he would thank her for the tea and conversation, and leave now. But it’s his last night of normalcy, and he finds that she isn’t bad company to keep.

“I have to be packed and ready at the airport by 0400,” he tells her honestly, “I’ve got a few hours to spare.”

She stands, grabbing both of their cups and walking them to the sink. He follows, if only to figure out what the next moment will bring. They’re close to the door and she could easily walk him out and bid him farewell, something that she _should_ do. But it seems something is pulling them together rather than apart and when she turns around and runs into his chest, she melts into it. There is another short moment where they are nose to nose, before she surges forward and kisses him with a confidence that hadn’t been there before.

His arms wrap around her small frame, pulling her into him as he tilts his head to the side to gain further access. The first brush of his tongue on hers has her moaning into his mouth and there is no stopping him now. She doesn’t flinch when his hands travel to her ass, nor when he uses it to pick her up. Her legs wrap around his waist as he places her on top of the counters, moving between her legs so that his groin his pushing into her center. He’s hard as a fucking rock, normally embarrassing considering all they’ve done is kiss but his attraction to her transcends anything he’s ever experienced, and he honestly couldn’t care less.

Her fingers grip his neck, his shoulder, and his hands travel down to her thighs. He massages them with his thumbs as he continues to explore her mouth. She is an excellent kisser, soft and demanding and he doesn’t want to stop. But air becomes an issue, so he pulls back, only to finally latch on to the spot he had briefly obsessed over earlier. As it turns out, that must be _the spot_ because she arches into him and lets out a contented sigh that nearly has him coming in his jeans.

He’s sucking a mark into her collar bone when she finally shoves him back, pupils blown out as she jumps down from the counter. He’s about to make sure she’s okay, afraid he had overstepped a boundary he hadn’t been aware of, but before he can even form the question, she has him by the hand again and is pulling him in to the back of the bungalow to the bed.

Any hesitation she may have had before is gone, instead replaced with a contagious sureness that has him being pushed to the bed with grunt and her legs straddling either side of his hips. He grips her waist as she grinds down on him, running his thumbs underneath the hem of her shirt to caress the soft skin as he leans in to kiss her. When she reaches down to grip her shirt, he stops her with his hand.

“Are you sure about this?” In all shapes and forms, the consent is clear as day. But getting to know her over cups of tea has created something between them, enough to make him check in with her, to make sure that she is one hundred percent certain and okay.

“Absolutely,” she reassures. He releases her hand and allows her to pull the shirt over her head, laughing as the tag gets snagged in her hair. By the time they both manage to get it out, they’re in a fit of giggles between kisses and it might quite possibly be the most innocent foreplay he’s ever had. And yet, it feels right. It feels like Clarke and that thought alone has his heart beating nearly through his chest.

This is dangerous, he thinks. But he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, tangling a hand into her hair and kissing her again and again and again.

The build up is slow, an exploration of bodies with soft hands, rough hands, and deft fingers. There are moments where it becomes clumsy and ridiculous – his shirt knocks over a lamp when he tosses it carelessly across the bed, Clarke’s cut offs are _tight_ and getting them off becomes a hilariously difficult task. By the time she’s got his jeans off, she’s breathless with laughter because he still has his boot socks on and something about being in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and socks with a rock-hard erection is absolutely fucking comical.

But the laughter soon catches in their throats, turns into light moans and long breaths.

Her skin, pale and glowing as the sunset bleeds through the blinds to illuminate the small apartment in shades of gold, her hair spread across her pillow like a halo as he kisses his way down her chest. The rosy hue of her nipples as they pebble under his touch, under the swipe of his tongue. The noises she makes are other-worldly, leaving him straining against the fabric of his briefs and his heart racing.

He’s never quite experienced something like this before: a desire to take his time, despite time not really being on their side. He ignores the ticking of the clock, removes his watch and lays it face down on her nightstand, before traveling down her body and settling between her legs. It seems natural, hooking his fingers through the waistband of her panties and pulling them down the length of her legs. His fingers find her first, running up and down her slit and feeling just how wet she is for him. He feels her thigh twitch under his other hand as he sinks a finger slowly into her, moving slowly as it pumps in and out. He’s testing her reaction, attentive to what she likes and what she doesn’t. He enters another, this time feeling just how tight she is and having to close his eyes and gather himself for a brief moment because he’s now picturing what she’d look like wrapped around his cock. Perfect, he already knows it will be perfect.

His thumb finds her clit and this time, she’s trembling beneath him, rocking her hips into his hand as he increases pressure and sinks his fingers further into her. He drags his eyes from her cunt to her face, seeing now that she has an arm thrown over her eyes, her lip between her teeth to keep herself from growing too loud. God, he wishes she wouldn’t and suddenly, his mission is to make her stop caring. To let go.

He presses a kiss to her thigh, trailing his lips higher and higher as he continues to fuck her with his fingers. She’s practically vibrating beneath him, perhaps in anticipation as his breath hits her pretty cunt, and with the first swipe of his tongue, she breaks. He lets out his own moan as he tastes her for the first time, so sweet she’s almost tangy and better than anything he’s ever had in his life. He keeps his fingers working, hooking into her as he flattens his tongue against her clit and laps her up like she’s an oasis in the desert. One of her hands finds his hair, her fingers tangle into the hair they can find and pulls slightly, driving him further into her.

She’s a chorus of, “Yes – Fuck – that feels so good – God, I’m close.” And it isn’t long before she’s coming apart on his tongue, her orgasm rocking through the both of them because there has, without a doubt, never been a more beautiful sight to behold. Her lips part, her back arches off the bed, and she calls out his name. He takes her all the way through it, slowing his fingers and taking her in with the gentlest of licks.

He could go on forever, but his cock is throbbing painfully, ready for its own release and he wants so bad to bury inside her, to see how she looks when she takes all of him in. She seems to be on the same wavelength, because she leans up and kisses him, wet and sloppy, tasting herself on him as she pushes him down to the bed.

“Condom?” she asks, running her hands from his chest to his abdomen, dipping her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers to trace the crease of his hip.

He tries to keep his voice steady, “Back pocket. In my wallet.”

She leans over the bed and digs through his jeans before coming back with the foil package. She lays it next to her on the bed before pulling his briefs down with the same attention he had given to her. He moans in relief as his cock springs free, and nearly loses it the moment her hand wraps around him.

It hasn’t been unreasonably long since he had sex and he typically prides himself on stamina, but there’s something about this girl that has him ready to blow his load with a single look, a single touch. For now, he won’t think about what that means, instead reveling in the moment.

She must sense that he’s already on the edge, because she wastes no time tearing open the foil package and rolling the condom onto him in one swift movement. He keeps his hands running along her thighs, to her hips, to her breasts and back down as she positions herself over him. He finds he is sorely mistaken: the sight of her coming undone against his lips is not the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, rather it’s the way she looks at him when she sinks down on his cock.

“Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful,” he can’t stop himself; he surges up to kiss her as she takes him all the way in. It’s just as he thought: perfect, tight, just like it was made to take him.

His hands guide her as she begins to move, slowly at first as though adjusting to the feel of him and then gaining more rhythm as she goes. She uses his shoulders for leverage, and he does his best to stay upright, because seeing her like this up close, feeling her breasts move along his chest with every movement, it’s beyond words. But soon she’s clenching onto him, the hints of another orgasm building, and he knows that he has to feel her come apart on his cock. He falls back into the pillows and she leans back, this time gripping his thighs as he thrusts into her. He finds her clit once more, rubbing frantic circles into her as he feels his balls begin to tighten, his release only moments away.

“Fuck,” he pants, “Come for me, baby. Please. _Please.”_

She tosses her head back with a long moan, her cunt pulsing against him as she comes on his command and his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when he comes with her, his thrusts becoming erratic as they try to ride through it together.

She collapses into his chest with a loud sigh, and she runs his hand absently along her spine, a trail of goosebumps following behind his fingers as he goes. He drops a kiss onto her forehead, a strangely intimate gesture and yet somehow natural. She rolls off him, sliding under the covers as she points him to her bathroom to clean up.

By now, he’s usually sliding back into his clothes and on his way, but when he comes back from the bathroom and sees her leaning against the headboard, still unabashedly naked, and…drawing. She’s pulled her lip between her teeth in concentration as she runs the pencil in long strokes along the paper. He hesitates, because he doesn’t want to interrupt, but then strides forward and slides back into bed.

This might be all they get, so why not make it last?

“What are you drawing?” he asks, leaning over and placing a light kiss to her shoulder.

She tilts the paper towards him, “Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.” It’s a light sketch thus far, just the beginnings of one, but he can make out the familiar shape, the engraving on the metal. His dog tags. It’s then he notices they’re sitting on her nightstand next to his watch, and he feels a small sense of self-righteousness about the whole thing. That she would take the time to draw something of his. Something to remember him by.

He watches her work in silence, watches the tags become more solid, more pronounced and when she’s finished, she signs a small ‘CG’ at the bottom before ripping out the drawing and handing it to him.

“You want me to take it?” he asks in surprise, his earlier pride deflating slightly.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she says quickly, “Just thought you might…”

He realizes then that they seem to be having the same sort of thought, both aware that this is probably the only time they’ll see each other. He’ll be in Iraq for months, be stationed on base for years. She’ll move on with her life as will he. And yet, this moment feels like so much more. More than sex, at least. He can’t say what ‘more’ really means, but he is painfully aware that the longer they lay there, the more he wishes he didn’t have to leave.

She leans down and kisses him softly, leaning her forehead against his with a sad smile, “You’re thinking too much.”

“Got any ideas on how to make that stop?”

“As a matter of fact…” she starts, reaching over to where his shirt is draped over her lamp and tugging it on, “I do.”

He finds it hard to focus on much else when she’s walking around in his t-shirt, nothing _but_ his t-shirt. It hits her mid-thigh, doing nothing to cover her bare ass when she reaches into her closet to grab something from the top shelf.

“How do you feel about board games?” she asks, rattling a box in her hands.

He finally manages to focus his attention. _Battleship._

He grins. “Oh, hell yeah.”

He pulls on his boxers and meets her back at the kitchen table. She hands him his set, before sitting down with her own and beginning to place her boats.

“My dad and I played this a lot when I was a kid,” she tells him.

“Same with my sister. One of the few games we had laying around the house.”

“Well, I hope you’re prepared to lose.”

“Since you’re so confident, why don’t we make it interesting.”

“What do you suggest?”

He places his final ship and leans back in his chair, gauging her reaction as he says, “For every ship of mine you sink, I’ll tell you a secret. And every ship of yours I sink, you tell me one.”

One thing he already knows about her: she won’t back down from a challenge. “A secret, huh?”

“Anything you want. Just think, I’ll be taking it to a desert across the world in the next eight hours.”

“Hope you enjoy telling secrets, babe.”

What she learns about him: he’s terrified of deployment; of the things he will have to do. Some days, he resents his sister for getting a life he wishes he had. He’s pansexual and she’s one of three people he’s said it aloud to. He once stole three bottles of Pedilalyte from a Walgreens. He lost his virginity to a woman twenty years his senior, something many have claimed was a gross violation, but he doesn’t regret it. He’s terrified of wasps. She doesn't judge him for any of it.

What he learns about her -- in the second game because she wipes the floor with him in the first and at least this time she lets him get a few hits in: she’s bisexual, though she’s been told it’s a ‘phase’’. She’s been out since she was fifteen. She hooked up with a girl who just so happened to be dating her then-boyfriend at the same time. She’s terrified of pursuing art, even if it’s her reason for leaving med-school. Sometimes she regrets that decision and wonders what her life would be like if her mom were still in her life, if she had kept in school. Maybe she’d feel better, maybe she’d feel worse. He tells her what ever choice makes her happy is the right one.

“Who knew a game of battleship could double as a therapy session,” he comments as they finish the second game. She beats him again, but only barely.

“Not exactly what you bargained for when you followed me home, right?” she laughs, though as she begins putting the game away, he notices a tension that wasn’t there before.

He reaches out, softly grazing her wrist. “Better, actually.”

She smiles, putting the game back and giving him another wonderful look at her ass. When she turns back around, this time with a box that says _Scrabble,_ she catches him staring.

“I’d tell you to take a picture, it’ll last longer, but that’s one thing I don’t want it making it’s rounds in the desert,” she jokes.

“I wouldn’t share.” He says seriously. The thought alone causes a visceral reaction in his stomach, one that surprises him. She doesn’t belong to him in any way shape or form, and yet the thought of anyone else seeing her like this…

“Good to know,” she smiles, thankfully unaware of the weird primitive thoughts running through his head. “How do you feel about Scrabble?”

“Depends on what the rule is on this one. I’m all out of secrets.”

“No rules this time. But how about we get comfortable?”

Her idea of comfortable turns out to be a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor and two glasses of white wine, to which he is vastly opposed to until she makes him take a sip and he realizes it’s _good._

“In this house, we only drink the quality stuff.” She tells him when he mentions his only experience with wine has been the five-dollar bottles of Barefoot and boxes of Franzia.

They set up their letter tiles and somehow, she manages to start the board with _treat_ when the best he has sitting in front of him is _gone._

“Can I be honest with you?” she asks as he places his tiles.

“I would hope so.”

“This is not how I expected the night to go.”

He marks down his score and settles into the pillow on his elbow. “And what were your expectations, might I ask?”

“I don’t really know,” she laughs, “To be honest, I’ve never really done the whole one-night stand thing. Not since like, freshman year of college. And after the fourth douchebag to approach me, I had pretty much decided that I was wasting my time.”

“And then I showed up,” he interrupts with a grin, leading her to smack him with her pillow.

“Ugh, don’t be so smug about it.”

“It’s okay, you can admit it. I’m charming!”

“You’re alright.” She rolls her eyes. She lays down _toxic_ on the board.

“Son of a bitch.” He groans, studying his own letters. He starts shuffling them around. “Just alright?”

“Good company. For a soldier, I mean.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Battleship was fun.” She grins.

“For you, maybe. How are you so good at that anyway – here we go!” He puts down _flux_ getting a triple word score off it.

“I just know how to read people. My dad taught me that. Perks of being an army brat, I guess.”

“Considering most of the soldiers I know don’t know how to take a hint or read a room, I’d say that had less to do with his army background.”

“I guess you’re right.” Her word: _Tux._

“Quit putting down x’s!”

They grow contemplative as the board fills and both their competitive sides seems to be making their appearance. The argue for almost ten minutes about the use of contractions, she nearly throws a fit when he hits a double word score on _maximize,_ and when she knocks his tiles over it leads to a wrestling match that ends with wine spilled on the floor, a ruined board, and several tile indentions left in his back.

She gets up to grab paper towels while he lifts the small pad of paper with the scores and shakes off the moisture. “I guess this means I won!”

_376 to 355._

He helps her clean up the mess, boxing up the game while she wipes down the floor. When she puts it away, he climbs on the bed to grab his watch. It’s just past midnight.

“I need a shower now,” she wines from the kitchen, “Wine is not as fun when it’s on your skin.”

“You started it.”

“Whatever. You coming or not?”

The bathroom is almost too small for the two of them – she nearly elbows him in the face when she takes off his shirt and he slams his knee into the counter when he tries to move past the sink. Her shower, thankfully, is a bit bigger, made of tile and stone with a waterfall head hanging from the ceiling, spraying wide enough that they can both stand underneath it rather than one shivering to death in the corner.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At this point, it feels as though they’ve done it a thousand times. They aren’t strangers anymore. Lovers, rather, even if it’s for one night only. One night, he can live with.

It doesn’t go any further than the lazy movement of their lips together, the occasional brush of tongues. The urge to fuck her is there, his cock hard against her stomach, but even now with only hours left, they still don’t rush. Instead, he squirts shampoo into his hands and massages her scalp. She runs a bar of soap slowly over his shoulders, his stomach, his arms. Every movement is meticulous and sensual, and they simply watch as the other discovers every inch, every crevice of their bodies.

Something begins to ache in his chest.

Finally, she flips the water off and they towel off, not bothering to get dressed. When she crawls back onto her bed, he follows her, sliding easily under the covers and soaking the sheets. She doesn’t seem to care, just pressing herself to his chest and kissing him, this time with more urgency.

His hands travel the now familiar curve of her body, stopping to knead her breasts. Her nipples grow hard underneath his fingers and when he rolls them between his thumb and index finger, she moans into his mouth. Her tits are magnificent, heavy in his hands and spilling over his palms. He could play with them for hours if he had the time, just massaging them, tasting them. He kisses down her chest and replaces his fingers with his mouth. She arches into him, running a hand through his wet curls as he licks and nibbles at her.

He lets his hand travel down he stomach, stroking her hips as she keens underneath him. His thumb brushes her mound and she whimpers in anticipation. He could easily just sink two fingers into her again, let things escalate quickly, follow the urgency that she seems to have. But he’s determined to take his time again, ready to memorize every moment to keep with him while he’s gone.

She fumbles between them to find his cock and when she takes him in her hands, stroking him as lightly as possible, his resolve begins to waver. His tongue becomes sharp on her breast, his thumb begins to circle her clit. It’s all more than primal want, it’s vital need.

“Bellamy,” she whispers his name, “Please.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” he tells her, pushing into her with his fingers, “Just tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

And, well, he would hate to deny her. But as he rolls on top of her, his cock brushing her inner thigh, he stops.

“I don’t have another condom,” he groans into her neck. Her fingers scratch at his scalp soothingly.

“I have an IUD. And I’m clean, so…”

“So am I,” he kisses just below her jawline, “We get tested pretty regularly.”

Her smile ignites something strange within him. “I guess that settles that, then.”

She clings to him when he pushes inside her, cunt even tighter than it had been before. Once again, he almost loses it instantly, having to fill his mind with random infantry terms to keep himself steady. The scratch of her nails on his back tells him she’s ready for him to move so he starts slowly, shallow thrusts in and out, opening her up to him gradually.

She angles her hips towards him, he hooks one of her knees onto his arms and this time, pulls all the way only to slam into her. She cries out, clearly no longer caring about her upstairs neighbors or the whole damn neighborhood hearing her. He’s in awe of her, the way she looks as he fucks her harder, head tossed back into the pillow, mouth agape with her moans and whimpers, body flushing under his praise. He can’t stop telling her how amazing she looks, afraid she’ll never really understand what she’s doing him, the visual she’s giving him, the insane amount of pleasure he’s getting from watching her take him.

Soon enough, she’s making demands. “Kiss me. Harder. Deeper. Slower.” He follows every single one, determined to give her whatever she wants and at this point, he’d give her the world if she asked. His release approaches rapidly as she clenches down on him and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make her come first. He spreads her legs wider, finding her clit and eliciting a near scream from her lips. Within in moments, she’s coming apart on him again, walls fluttering around his cock and somehow, he manages to take her through it before he’s pulling out and coming onto her stomach.

The exhaustion catches up to him as he collapses next to her, sinking into the mattress in a residual haze of ecstasy. She’s still twitching slightly, the aftershocks still buzzing through her limbs. He finds he towel long since thrown to the floor and wipes her stomach, before pulling the blanket over them. Without thinking, he pulls her to him, kissing her softly. She smiles against his lips, melting into the embrace with a sigh.

“As far as your last night of freedom goes, how was this?” she yawns into his shoulder.

“Perfect,” he tells her honestly, “Thank you.”

“Mmm, thank you back.”

When she dozes off, his reaches for his watch, careful not to jostle her too much. It’s almost two in the morning, leaving him just over two hours before he’s due to report. He’s not far from the hotel and if he calls an Uber, he can be there in ten minutes. His bags are packed already, the only thing left to do is check out and ride to the airport. He sets the alarm on his watch for an hour and puts it back on his wrist. Clarke snuggles further into him and he settles into it, letting himself doze with her.

When his watch beeps, he wakes with a low groan. The exhaustion has sunk into his bones, his head is pounding, and he wishes he could just sleep for another ten hours. But his reality is different now, his duty calls. He slides out of bed carefully, Clarke's arm sliding to the bed with a soft thunk. She stirs but doesn’t wake and he’s glad for it. He’s not really good at goodbyes and he’s not really sure how he would even start with her. They had their moment, both knowing how it would end. No need to make it more than it was.

He dresses quietly, dragging is phone out of his jean pocket to call the Uber. He has three missed calls from Miller and a text from Murphy that reads: _if you went awol with that girl, I’m gonna kick your ass._ He realizes he has no pick up address, but still, he doesn’t wake her. Instead, he looks on shelves, in the kitchen, until he finds a piece of mail and types in the address. Estimated arrival: five minutes.

He finds his dog tags on the nightstand, catching the paper stuck beneath them before it flutters to the ground. The drawing. He contemplates taking it for a moment, keeping it as something to remember her by but ends up putting it back down. He has so much more than a drawing to remember her by and selfishly, he wants her to have just one little piece of him to keep.

_Way to be sentimental about a one-night stand, Blake._

By the time he tracks down his shirt in the bathroom, his phone beeps to let him know his ride is outside. Checking to make sure he has everything he came with; he creeps to the front door. As turns the knob, she calls out to him.

“Hey solider!”

He turns, dreading the look of confusion she’s bound to have at the sight of him leaving without a goodbye. She’s still laying in bed, now huddled on the side he just vacated. She shows no sign of confusion or even sadness, really. She just watches him from the room, and says, “Don’t die out there, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best.” He smiles, forcing himself out the door before he makes the stupid decision to crawl back into bed with her.

The Uber ride is quiet, leaving him to replay the night in his head. Meeting Clarke had been unexpected in more ways than one, in that she became so much more than a woman to fuck. She’s someone he grew to care about in the matter of a few hours despite his intentions. But she’s hard not to like, open and honest and raw and beautiful.

When he’s dropped off in front of the hotel, he finds himself saving her address. Maybe if he’s ever back in Boston, he’ll look her up. They could grab dinner or something. Catch up. In a weird way, part of him hopes that they could be friends. In an alternate universe, maybe they would be more.

In the end, he knows nothing will ever come of it but…just in case.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> fic 1/14.  
> i'm already exhausted and we're only just starting lmao. 
> 
> As always comments/kudos are appreciated!  
> come hang on [tumblr](http://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com/)  
> come hang on [twitter](https://twitter.com/octannibalblake)


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